


Frenzy

by Strigoi17



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Asphyxiation, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very rough, very degrading — and egotistical — Komaeda on Komaeda. Things like scratches, choking, rugburn, drool and cum and other hot messiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frenzy

**Author's Note:**

> also posted on my writing blog here: http://ectoghosts.tumblr.com/

Your pulse is a dull, fidgety thing; it flutters uncontrollably fast beneath the fingers folded across your windpipe. The pressure forces airy gasps out of you, quiet moans and low chokes slipping from purple cheeks.

With agile fingers he rips at the clasp of your belt, tripping over the difficulty of using one hand. It comes undone with a loud bang, and your hips rock upward with the eager force he uses to rip it from your belt-loops. They brush against his, a twin set of angled bones, but he tightens his fingers and your entire body collapses back onto the carpet.

His breath is hot and slick against your neck. “Are you guilty?”

It’s hard with his fingers digging into your neck, but you shake your head. Lack of oxygen is making your vision collapse in on itself, all blurry black edges and prismed lines. A face just like your own jeers at you through the shadows, steals the rest of your breath off of your lips with his own. He draws your lower lip between his teeth, drags them across the tender skin.

You don’t know if you like the way you taste. When he forces his tongue into your mouth, you can feel your muscles going limp. You’re blacking out, slipping away from his fingers as they rake down your stomach, but you find yourself starting as he pulls away from you. His hands leave your neck and as you suck down air, the places where his fingers had been ache. The air is cold and your face is hot; he kisses the burning, pulsing fingerprints he’d left on your neck. He covers you in strips of saliva and bites down, hard enough to break skin. Pain thuds through your entire upper body, and when he brings his head up there’s a discernible ridge of blood trapped in the corners of his mouth.

“Youre so fucked up, look at you getting off on this!”

You cough, and try to raise your hand to cover your mouth, before he grabs both of your wrists and slams them down. “Did I say you could move, you piece of shit?”

“Who — who are you,” breathing is difficult, but you speak through the burning in your lungs. “To tell me what to do?”

“I’m you.” He grins, digging his nails into the tender folds of your wrists. “And even I’m above a wretch like yourself.”

You open your mouth to respond, but your words are devoured by your stunned yelp. He yanks your shirt over your head before you could register that he freed your wrists; your arms and your voice get tangled in the fabric. He leans back, both of his knees settled beside your hips, and slips a hand down the crease of your stomach. Shivers send you wriggling, hypersensitive skin goosebumping where his nails ghost across your skin. Above you, he’s all shiny red lips and wide eyes; his smile is crooked as he soaks in a stomach he’s seen a million times.

“Youre so pretty.” His nails dig into your side and you whine, shoulders rolling back against the carpet. You can’t stand to look at him anymore, so you don’t; you turn your head to the side as he yanks of your boxers and your jeans in one thick handful of fabric. Caught off guard, you skid an inch across the carpet — your shoulders burn and you hiss, close your eyes in pleasure-pain.

He tosses your clothes behind him carelessly; your chain thumps heavily on the floor and suddenly you are naked, bare and exposed beneath him. You’re both aware, without debate, that he is better than you, and the fact starts a fire inside of the one already roaring.

You close your eyes and he takes your weakness in stride. Placing one hand on each of your thighs, he forces them open and yanks you ass-up. Your dick is hard, and it pushes back against your stomach.

He doesn’t strip himself; he yanks his pants down to mid-thigh and brings himself out of them by hand. “You want me to defile you, don’t you?” He smiles, squeezing your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Isn’t that what you want, you pathetic mess of a human being?”

He forces himself into you without warning or lube; the scream that rips out of your throat is high and desperate and in love. The first thrust is hard enough to wind you; you keen madly, bucking up into him.

“Are you loving this?” You twitch into the back of his hand when it grazes your neck. Another, deeper buck into you, and you hoot out a high “ooh,” from the back of your throat. A rough, slightly sporadic rhythm is established, pounding your spine into the coarse carpeting.

“I never thought I could meet someone lower than — ah! — myself, but I suppose the only other option WAS myself, w-wasn’t it?” His musing is loud enough to carry over your harsh panting.

He’s rocking his hips into you, skidding your entire body backward, when you finally scream. It’s a raspy, guttural noise, ripped from your chest by the overly intense heat crawling across your skin. You’re drenched in sweat and your shoulders are flushed, your stomach sticky with the pre already oozing out of your tip.

There’s a pocket of spite in your chest, and with each movement it slips and dislodges. With your hips tipped into the air and him on his knees, forcing the breath out of your stomach, it’s hard to speak.

“Are — are you going to keep me as your dirty — dirty little secret?” Your mouth hangs open around your words, stringy drool slipping down your cheek. “Will you let this haunt you until you finally get killed off?”

He doesn’t answer, but you can read yourself. There’s a vein suddenly pulsing in his neck, an animalistic growl rumbling in his chest. “You may be better than me,” You split your sentence in half with a small “ah,” noise. “But you still ARE me.”

His hips are crashing farther down into you, and he’s buried himself up to his hilt. Speech is getting harder by the moment, but you keep talking, spurred on by the fire frenzying in his eyes.

“You’re still a pitiful excuse for a lifeform. You’ll be surrounded by Super High School Levels regardless, and you’re nothing compared to them.”

He drops your hips and slips out of you without a word. There’s a stalled moment where you doubt yourself, where you wonder if self-manipulation was too far, but he’s flipping you over onto your stomach and pushing your head into the carpet. Sharp pain skitters across your scalp when he tangles his fingers in your hair; you get rugburn across your nose as he shoves you into the floor.

With one hand, he yanks your hips up into his lap, presses his stomach against your back. There’s an immediate difference in the smoothness of his hips, and he pushes into you quicker. You’re screaming again, voice muffled against the carpet, hideously overwhelmed and desperately pressing your ass back against his hips.

His voice is low and his lips are hot against your bruising neck. “You’re making a fucking mess of yourself,” he covers you in sharp nips and rough scratches. He drags a hand through the cum dribbled along your stomach, nose buried in your neck and your hair.

He reaches his climax before you do; he cums inside of you, a burst of dewy warmth that spreads through the course of your body in pulses. He pulls out without tending to you; you collapse belly-first onto the carpet, tugging at your erection in a frenzy of choked moans and sloppy movements.

 

You wake cold and aching. Alone, sprawled in a puddle of sweat and cum on your cabin floor, you glance blearily up toward the ceiling and take mental tally of your very real injuries. There’s rugburn smeared up the length of your back, scratches across your body and bruises and hickies tattering your neck. You lay there, motionless, and wonder where he could have gone — and where he could have come from.


End file.
